Butterfly Wing Fingers
by Klingon Chik
Summary: They're as close as two people can be, yet they don't touch. (George POV, twincest.)


AN: First attempt at a twincest--tell me what you think, even if it's a flame--hey, flames are reviews, right?.   ~_^   Slight spoilers for Order of the Phoenix.  Drop me a review and I'll love you forever.  I'm new to this area of fanfiction.net, so support would be GREATLY appreciated.

Butterfly-Wing Fingers

Klingon Chik

Young, stupid, and in love, Fred and I first hit the sheets at age fourteen.  I ended up on the bottom and promptly went hysterical.  Fred, bombarded with overwhelming opportunities and sensations, failed to notice--resulting in a terrifying, almost-rape scene that sent me into a lingering, nightmarish depression.  I came out of it about a month later, and Fred apologized profusely; tearfully.  Needless to say, I forgave him.  After all, I'd never blamed him in the first place.  But I told him simply that we weren't mature enough for the adult world, and that we should wait at least a year.  And it was exactly a year later that Fred caught me alone and ever so gently kissed me--it was only _then_ that I picked up the pieces and we pulled together a steady relationship.

But I didn't touch him.

When he kissed me, I would let my hands hover millimeters away from his back, fingers brushing as faintly as the beating of a butterfly's wings, or so Fred said once, in a poetic mood.  Even when we had sex, I wouldn't permit him unquestionable, strong strokes--I would let my fingertips whisper along his face, teasing tenderly.  Sometimes he would reach for my wrist, but I'd move so he was left wondering if I'd really had contact with him--or had he just imagined it?

With my actions, Fred's mood took a definite change, but he generously understood that I was still frightened.  Nevertheless, it didn't fully satisfy him.  He began to drift around, confused, unsure of what was reality and what was fantasy because of my vague caresses.  I imagine that his life became very surreal, from the way he'd glance at me with a fleeting, panicky look--sometimes even reaching a hand out to put on my shoulder, as if to ascertain to himself that I was real.  It was a power that I held over him; a power to manipulate him so he couldn't recognize what was existent and what was his own mind.  Cruel as it was, I couldn't hand over that power by discontinuing my feathery cuddles--I felt like nothing was sacred anymore, and I clung desperately to my last semblance of domination.

Oh god, how I wanted to throw my arms around him, kiss him, touch him with steady, concrete hands so he'd _know_ for sure that I _was_ touching him.  But I couldn't bring myself to.  Every time I tried, the night of our first time would flood in--and with it, uncertainty, fright, inability to _forget_.  And with that thought, I'd cry.  It was humiliating, but impossible to stop.

"George," he said brokenly to me during one of these fits, kissing my fingers.  "_Please_.  I'll never hurt you again."

"I know," I told him, my voice cracking.

"Then prove that you trust me," he pleaded, moving his lips to my neck.  "_Touch_ me, so I can feel it--so I can know that this is all true."  Then he would offer me his smooth palm, but I could never take it, and he would finish making love to me, trying to mask his grief at my refusal.

Eventually Fred began to accept my way of touching him, and he even joked about it occasionally, his eyes sparkling mischievously as he spread my hands on top of his, palms up.  "My dear," he'd say in his best Madam Trelawney murmur.  "I am a master when it comes to palmistry, and you have a syndrome which we call butterfly-wing-fingers--you have fingers that tickle and bat, but do not settle."

"Butterfly-wing-fingers?" I said, laughing.  "That's ridiculous."

"Almost as ridiculous as your syndrome," he said slyly, grinning, and I had to agree, though however sadly.

"Is there any cure for butterfly-wing-fingers, then?"

He regarded me seriously; the answer was always the same.  "_Trust_."

Years passed, bringing wisdom and taking naiveté.  When clouds of childish ignorance cleared, we saw the real world, and it was broken and corrupt and ravaged with war.  It was as if a curtain had lifted--there was no transition.  One moment we were blissfully unaware and the next we were sitting together on Fred's bed, feeling sickened and furious.

"I can't believe this," Fred raged vehemently.  "The Ministry is going to blazes; why can't Percy see that?  Getting mixed up in such a fraudulent government--he's going to get himself _killed_, he is!"

"It's Fudge," I said decisively, standing to pace.  "If we could dump Fudge--"

"Yeah, that's easier said than done."  Then he hauled me into a kiss so suddenly that I fell back on the bed with an undignified thump.  When we broke away, his eyes met mine.  "Thank god there are people like you in the world," he said, his bouncy words betraying the intensity in his gaze.  "Otherwise our world would've crashed a long time ago.  I wish I could go up to the Ministry right now and blow Fudge away, but that's ridiculous--I mean, I'm sure tons of people have tried--how could an eighteen year old do it, on a whim?"

"Bet you could," I said.  "I'll go with you and everything."

He smiled helplessly.  "Yeah, and I'm Celestina Warbeck's main guitarist."

"No, I think we could do it together--I _trust_ you."

The forbidden word had slipped out, and he glanced at me, his eyes wide.  Then he uncomfortably turned his attention to his feet, seemingly at a loss for words.  After a moment he straightened and leaned in to kiss me, pushing me back onto the bed.  His tongue probed carefully into my mouth.  I gingerly brought up my hands again, tracing the lightest pattern down his spine--my butterfly-wing-fingers.  We hadn't had sex for a long time--_nearly a year_, I realized.

Moments like this were incredibly rare now--what with our collapsing government, the only time we had was spent worrying over Percy or comforting mum.  So few happy things, now--and I felt a sudden rush of anger.  _Fudge should die_, I thought fiercely, kissing Fred back harder.  _Fred and I should go up and kill him.  So what if we die?  It'll be the first step in making sure that moments like this_--oh lord, Fred had brushed against my cheek--he was crying--_the first step in making sure that moments like this are there in the future, for other people who are desperately in love, for other people who share hopes, and dreams, and trust in each other--_

_Fred.  I trust you_.

Slowly I let my dancing fingertips come to a rest, flattening them softly against Fred's back.

I heard him gasp, and I closed my eyes, running my hands through his hair, down his face, settling them against his chest.  He grabbed my wrist and gripped my fingers so tightly that they turned white, but I found that I didn't care a bit.  "George," he gasped, his eyes wide.  "What happened--what happened to the butterflies?"

I let him go and pulled him into a hug, resting my chin on his shoulder.  "Flew away," I whispered.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Weasleys didn't have money--it was taboo.  But what they lacked in finances, they made up for in appreciation for natural beauty.

Such were Ron Weasley's thoughts as he pushed through the iron gates of the family cemetery, making his way to the top of the hill.  He was careful not to trod on any grave, nor to let his lonely two daisies be crushed in his clenched fist.  It was hard to do this.  So hard.  But he had to do this.  He hadn't been for a visit in three years, being busy with his own efforts to stop the war--efforts that were finally paying off, as was evident in the flourishing graveyard, once gray and ugly, but now full of the beautiful trees and shrubs that made it an acceptable resting place for the two of the greatest heroes of the wizarding world.

He stepped into the pagoda on the crest of the grounds and was breathless.  It had been three years, and the magical, non-dying flowers now packed the place so that the fragrance alone nearly knocked him off his feet.  He had to brush away roses and vines to see the names.

_Fred Weasley.  George Weasley_.

That was all that was written, but somehow, it was sufficient.  After all, if their gravestones couldn't do them justice, the history books could: these were the wizards who killed Cornelius Fudge, the man who was driving the world into the ground.  And their brave first steps gave way to more gallant, noble acts that eventually brought a new Minister to power; one who had enrolled in the Ministry as a spy with the intentions of destroying Lord Voldemort--one by the name of Percy Weasley.

Ron would never understand why the twins had made such a sacrifice.  There was no indication of planning in their room; no hint whatsoever as to what they were about to do.  They had seemingly crawled out of bed (the same bed, oddly enough) and gone out to do the deed.  But George did leave a note pinned to the door, and it said simply, _ensuring our impending generation's happiness_.  So they knew what they were doing.

He put the daises on the graves--somehow, they did not seem lost, even in the maze beautiful columbines or the vast patches of colorful tulips.  Daisies were the twins' favorite flowers.

"You've done it," he said aloud, unable to help a smile.  "You've ensured the impending generation's happiness--well done."  Footsteps pattered behind him, and he swallowed.  "Well done."

"Daddy--let's go."

A small tug at his robes and he glanced down, still smiling as he brushed away tears.  He hoisted his daughter up, balancing her precariously on his hip as he hugged Hermione with his free arm.  She smiled at him too, her eyes also glittering.  "Ready to go?" she asked, and he nodded, face full of beautiful maturity and pride as the family strode back down to the exit--another three people who were saved from the traumatic aftermath of war because of the doings of two very special people.

Ron felt a tickle on his cheek, and Hermione laughed.

"A butterfly," she said, pointing.

"Butterfly," said his daughter, now in the parrot phase, and her parents laughed.

When Ron felt movement on his face again, he looked around for the butterfly--but there was none.  It was just a tear, brushing as faintly as the beating of a butterfly's wings.

End


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